Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in the CloudsThe penthouse suite on the forty-third floor of the Elliot Tower was not a home; it was a fortress suspended in the night sky.
When Maria and Lily were moved upstairs by the head of security twenty minutes after the ballroom disaster, Maria felt like she was walking through a dream sequence that had turned into a psychological thriller.
The suite boasted floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the glittering, grid-locked sprawl of Chicago, minimalist white oak furniture, and a roaring marble fireplace.
Lily was fast asleep in a massive guest bedroom on a bed so soft she looked like she was floating on a cloud, her little hand still clutching the crumpled crayon drawing she had tried to give “Mr. Mar.”
Maria stood by the glass window in the master sitting room, wearing an oversized black cardigan over her uniform dress, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she watched the distant headlights crawl across Lake Shore Drive.
He’s insane, her mind screamed. He’s a dangerous, powerful man playing some kind of twisted game. Tomorrow morning, the media will tear you apart. They’ll call you an opportunist, a gold-digger, a servant who trapped the king.
A soft knock echoed from the double doors.
Maria didn't turn around. “Come in.”
The heavy oak door clicked open and closed. Heavy, measured footsteps approached across the hardwood floor.
Marcus had discarded his tuxedo jacket and bow tie. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the lean, corded muscle and faint scars of a man who didn't spend all his time behind a mahogany desk. He carried two mugs of black coffee, setting them down on the glass coffee table before walking over to stand a few feet away from her.
“She sleeping?” Marcus asked quietly.
“Yes,” Maria murmured, still staring out at the city. “She’s exhausted. She thinks we’re staying in a fancy hotel.”
“It’s not a hotel,” Marcus said. “It’s your home now.”
Maria finally turned her head, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of defensive pride.
“Stop saying that, Mr. Elliot,” she snapped, her voice trembling slightly. “You can’t just pluck a maid off the banquet floor, hand her a million-dollar ring, and declare her your wife because you had a dramatic falling-out with your aristocratic fiancée. I have a life. I have dignity. I am not a prop for your revenge fantasy against Victoria Hargrove.”
Marcus didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply absorbed her anger with the calm patience of a mountain taking the wind.
“Do you really think this was about Victoria?” Marcus asked softly.
Maria frowned, crossing her arms tighter. “Of course it was. She insulted you, she insulted your party, and you wanted to destroy her socially by replacing her with the absolute lowest person on your payroll.”
Marcus let out a slow, heavy sigh. He took two steps closer, closing the distance between them until Maria could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and expensive scotch on his skin.
“Maria, look at me,” he commanded quietly.
She hesitated, then raised her chin, forcing herself to look straight into his piercing gray eyes.
“I’ve spent the last ten years surrounded by people who calculate every word they say to me based on what I can give them,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a register so raw and unfiltered it made her breath catch. “Politicians want my endorsements. Investors want my capital. Women like Victoria wanted my name and my bank accounts. For ten years, I haven't met a single soul in this city who gave a damn about who I am when the suits come off.”
He reached out, his large, warm hand gently closing over her small, trembling fist where she still clutched the edge of her cardigan.
“Except you,” Marcus whispered. “Every time you walked into my office with the weekly inventory reports, you didn't look at me like I was a billionaire. You looked at me like I was a man who forgot to drink his coffee. You kept my books clean, you kept my staff from tearing each other apart, and you never once asked me for a single favor.”
He gently uncurled her fingers, taking the heavy platinum engagement ring—the one he had shoved into her palm downstairs—and sliding it slowly, deliberately over her ring finger.
The cold metal warmed against her skin instantly.
“I didn't hand you that ring to punish Victoria,” Marcus said, his thumb brushing over her knuckle. “I handed it to you because I realized that if I didn't lock you down tonight, some other man with more sense than me was going to find you tomorrow and realize what a treasure you are.”
Maria’s throat felt entirely dry. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She opened her mouth to argue, to find a flaw in his logic, to protect herself from the terrifying prospect of hoping again.
May you like
Instead, she whispered, “I’m scared, Marcus.”
“Good,” Marcus replied, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his mouth. “So am I. But we’ll figure it out together.”
